Die Another Day
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Tag to 14x17 – Hurt Sam / Big Brother Dean – Sam swallowed, trying to focus through a wave of dizziness as he leaned over the bench seat and pressed the Impala's horn – one long blast, followed by two shorter honks and a final long blare. Dean would know what that particular sequence meant, would know Sam was both injured and in trouble.


**Summary**: Tag to 14x17 – Hurt Sam / Big Brother Dean – Sam swallowed, trying to focus through a wave of dizziness as he leaned over the bench seat and pressed the Impala's horn – one long blast, followed by two shorter honks and a final long blare. Dean would know what that particular sequence meant, would know Sam was both injured _and _in trouble.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine

**Warnings**: Spoilers for 14x17

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_We're gonna live forever if the good die young. – Tracy Lawrence_

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It had been one of John's rules; one of many that had saved their asses – and his – over the years. But even if their dad hadn't repeated his instructions before every single hunt, their instincts would have steered them there.

That's how it worked. Home was where everyone wanted to go when they were injured or threatened. And for them, that was the Impala.

"If this all goes sideways, where do _you_ go?"

Sam could still hear the stern edge in John's voice, could still see his dad staring at him with that scowl that had masked his fear so well for so many years; his fear that he would lose his kids just like he had lost his wife.

Dean was old enough to take care of himself and had proven he could more times than a child should be required, but Sam...

"Focus, Sam," John snapped, like he was annoyed his youngest hadn't answered.

Like Sam _could_ answer with Nick's hands around his throat.

Like John was even there...

"Where do you go?"

The response was instant even if Sam couldn't speak the word.

_Home. _

And lucky for Sam, home was right behind him; his back pressed against it as Nick continued to choke him. Its door open and waiting. He just had to get inside.

Nick's jaw clenched as his fingers dug into Sam's skin, so focused on crushing the trachea beneath his grip that he didn't notice Sam's defensive maneuver until he was stumbling backward.

Sam seized the opportunity, ducking into the Impala's backseat before slamming and locking the door as Nick charged.

"Come on, Sam," Lucifer's not-so-perfect vessel taunted, his breath fogging the glass as he crouched to eye-level with his prey. "Let's play, baby." He pounded his fists against the window. "Come on, Sam!"

Safe inside the Impala, Sam panted; the shallow breaths sharp and burning as they filled his lungs. The gaping gash at his hairline pulsated with every heartbeat, and he could feel the blood coating the side of his face, thick and warm. As he stared at Nick, his system flooded with adrenaline and defiance.

"Alright. Good. Next step?"

John's voice was back in Sam's head.

How many times had their dad drilled this with him? First, take shelter in the Impala. And then...call for Dean.

John had never said to call for him. Maybe because he knew it was Sam's instinct to call for his big brother. Or maybe John had been more aware of his shortcomings as a father than he had ever let on. Maybe he realized he was never around for Sam – or for Dean. Maybe he knew the only person his boys could always count on was each other.

Sam swallowed, trying to focus through a wave of dizziness as he leaned over the bench seat and pressed the Impala's horn – one long blast, followed by two shorter honks and a final long blare.

Dean would know what that particular sequence meant, would know Sam was both injured _and _in trouble.

Inside the warehouse, Dean received Sam's message.

Long...short, short...long.

_Fuck._

A thousand possible scenarios flashed through Dean's head, all ending with Sam hurt and huddled in the shelter of the Impala. On instinct, he moved toward the door, then turned to block a literal stab in the back as one of the demons approached.

The demon slammed him into the wall, and Dean could feel the pressure of the knife's sharp point as it hovered over his chest. They struggled for a few seconds before Dean was done fucking around. Sam needed him.

In one swift move, Dean performed his own defensive maneuver, breaking the demon's hold and stabbing _him_ in the chest. The demon yelled and flickered as Dean shoved him to the floor.

Donatello's wide-eyed gaze shifted from the dead demon to Dean.

"Come on!" Dean barked as the Impala's horn blasted again with just one continuous blare...which meant the immediate threat was gone but Sam's condition was worsening by the second. His little brother needed him _now_.

The urgency of the blaring horn and a hurt Sammy spurred Dean forward. He jogged out the door, across the platform, and down the stairs, wanting to move faster but not wanting to risk a fall in the snow and ice. He couldn't help his kid if he was injured, too.

Dean heard Sam call his name. Heard the desperation and pain in his voice. Heard ragged gasps and the sounds of flailing – like Sam was trying to stand but couldn't manage the strength or coordination.

Dean's heart hammered – _fuck, fuck, FUCK_ – as he started to run. He could see the Impala, could see her backdoor open on the driver's side...but he couldn't see Sam. He could only hear him continue to gasp and struggle.

Which meant what? Gasping could indicate a throat or chest wound. Inability to stand pointed to an injured leg...or two. But gasping _and_ incoordination meant...

Sam called his name once more as Dean finally reached him; the desperation and pain replaced by relief at knowing his big brother was there.

"Sam!" The demon knife clattered against the asphalt as Dean dropped it and knelt beside his brother. "Sammy..." His hand was firm and grounding in the center of Sam's chest as he triaged his kid's condition – the amount of blood covering Sam's face, Sam's unfocused gaze, the wheezes that sounded like Sam was trying to breathe through a clogged straw.

Dean chanced a quick glance around, wondering where the hell Nick went and how the hell he had gotten the drop on his brother.

Sam gasped again, drawing Dean's attention.

"Alright. Hey. Hey." Dean waited for Sam's gaze to crawl back to him. "Let me look at you..." he said, his hand hovering over the jagged head wound continuing to gush blood.

So much blood. Smeared across Sam's cheek and forehead, in the creases around his eyes, matted in his hair, creeping down his neck...

Dean swallowed and put on his game face, well aware his little brother was staring at him and knowing even in his disoriented state, Sam would be able to gauge the severity of their situation by Dean's reaction.

"It's not even that bad," Dean lied, just like he had at Cold Oak and a hundred other places before and after that. "It's not even that bad," he repeated, as if saying it twice would make it true.

Sam did that long, slow blink he often did before losing consciousness.

"Sammy..." Dean called. "Sam!"

Sam startled at Dean's yell and squinted up at his brother.

"Stay with me," Dean ordered, glancing over his shoulder as Donatello approached. "There's an extra phone in the glove compartment." He nodded at the car. "Get it. Call 911 and tell them to hurry the fuck up!"

Donatello nodded and did as he was told, though he wasn't planning to use that exact script.

Dean returned his attention to Sam as he snatched the blue bandana from his back pocket; the old standby being indispensable over the years as Dean took care of his little brother. From runny noses to skinned knees...to slashed palms and head wounds threatening to bleed Dean's kid dry, the blue bandana had seen it all.

Sam flinched and moaned as Dean pressed the fabric against his head.

Dean winced in sympathy. "I know, man. I know," he soothed, wishing he could gentle his touch. "But I've gotta try to stop this bleeding."

Sam blinked at him. "Dean."

"I'm right here. Right here, Sammy." Dean rubbed his thumb over Sam's forehead, smearing even more blood across his brother's skin. "Just stay with me, okay?"

"Nick."

Dean shook his head, pushing down the rage that burned inside at the mention of that bastard's name.

"Nick. He...he's..."

Dean realized his brother was trying to warn him and shook his head again. "Don't worry about him. He's gone. Alright? He's gone, and I'm here, and you're gonna be just fine."

Dean could hear Donatello talking to the 911 operator behind him.

"Twenty minutes," the prophet whispered to Dean, relaying the ambulance's estimated time of arrival.

Dean clenched his jaw at the news, because Sam didn't have 20 minutes. He dug his cellphone from his coat pocket, speed-dialing Mary as he continued to apply pressure to a wound that seemed hell-bent on bleeding and bleeding and _bleeding_.

Mary answered on the first ring. "Dean?"

"Nick," Dean replied, skipping formalities. "He's trying to resurrect Lucifer."

"How?"

Dean could hear the confusion and disbelief in his mom's voice. "I don't know." And in that moment, he didn't care. "I don't know. He played us."

And that embarrassment fucking _stung_.

"We have to stop him."

Jack's voice was determined as he chimed in from the background, and Dean would have agreed if his little brother wasn't bleeding out in front of him.

"Yeah, well, we don't even know where he is, okay?" Dean told them. "And he hurt Sam. He got him in the head. I don't even want to move him. We called an ambulance but they said 20 minutes." He paused for a breath, feeling himself teetering on the edge of all-consuming panic. "It's not good, Mom. It's really bad."

Sam was out of it enough that Dean felt safe making that confession now, even though doing so caused his fear and panic to multiply. Because anything could happen – anything to anybody – and Dean would be fine, would soldier through it and come out on the other side. But nothing could happen to Sam. That was the one rule in Dean Winchester's life. Nothing could happen to Sam. Sam had to be alive and safe and healthy 24/7, 365. That was the only thing Dean needed, the only thing that made his world complete.

But right now, Dean's world was falling apart.

"We're on our way," Mary said and ended the call.

Dean pocketed his phone just as Sam made a guttural sound; his eyes fluttering as his body jerked in that involuntary way bodies did when life was slipping away.

"No, no, no," Dean murmured, positioning himself a little closer, a little more in Sam's direct line of vision. "Sammy. Look at me." He waited. "Hey. _Hey_."

Sam finally focused on him, responding to the edge in Dean's voice, to Dean's hand squeezing his shoulder.

"Come on, man. Stay with me now."

Sam blinked at him; his hand twitching between them, his legs sluggish as they moved as well. Sam's body reacting to the shock taking over, claiming control.

"We're just gonna play a little game," Dean announced, and if Sam was more lucid, he would recognize this, would know where this was headed. "We're gonna count, okay?"

Dean had lost count of how many times he had executed this ploy – his guaranteed way of keeping his brainy little brother awake and talking...or distracted from the cluster of their current situation...or resistive to the enticing pull of the peaceful, pain-free dark that beckoned.

Or all three.

Today, Dean was trying to accomplish all three.

But over the years, they had counted when four-year old Sammy didn't need to see what John was doing to the Big Bad Ugly just beyond the Impala's windshield. They had counted between bouts of vomiting when six-year old Sammy was huddled over a motel toilet. They had counted through broken bones and stitches, through stab wounds and bullet holes, through sickness and sorrow.

As Sam had gotten older, he had become more reluctant to play along, had bitched about being made to count like a child.

"I'm not a kid, Dean."

But Sam was wrong. He was _Dean's_ kid – always had been, always would be. Age was not a factor in that fact, and Dean would endure the bitching if it meant keeping his kid alive.

But Sam wasn't bitching now. Dean's smart little brother looked like he didn't even know what numbers were, much less possessed the ability to count them.

Dean forced a smile, the expression tight and strained as he pretended this was just another day and everything was fine. Sam had no reason to be scared...even if Dean was _fucking terrified_.

"We're gonna count," he repeated and was encouraged to see Sam try to nod, try to smile. Whether he recognized this after all or was trying to reassure Dean, the end result was the same – this kid was breaking Dean's heart.

Sam gasped.

"Count with me. One..."

Sam's mouth moved but nothing came out except another gasp.

The harsh sound was a stab through Dean's _everything_. He felt his expression change, his heartache flashing across his face for one brief moment before he tucked it away.

"Two..."

Sam managed a breathy, garbled version of the word.

But it was the best thing Dean had heard all day. "Yeah, there you go," he praised, feeling like he was teaching Sam to count all over again.

Like he was back in that motel room in Aberdeen, holding a two-year old Sam who repeated whatever his big brother said with no understanding of what it really meant.

Dean swallowed against the knot of emotion lodged in his throat and pushed forward. "Three," he gritted out, determined to continue, to keep Sam awake until the ambulance arrived.

But Sam had other ideas.

"D'n..."

Dean shook his head, trying to discourage Sam from talking too much. "Come on. Come on..."

"D'n. Y-you...you always...you always put me first."

Dean shook his head harder, recognizing last words when he heard them...and refusing to listen because _they were not fucking doing this_.

"Shhh. Shhh," he hushed, not wanting Sam to waste what precious breath he still had. He didn't need confessions or last goodbyes from his brother. There would be time for that later. Years from now, when they were both old and ready to go..._together_. Right now, he needed numbers. "Come on. Come on, man."

"Your whole life," Sam wheezed, then gasped louder and harsher than before.

Dean's jaw clenched against the raw pain of seeing his kid like this, of knowing Sam was slipping away and _these_ were the last words his little brother wanted Dean to hear from him. Sam wanted Dean to know he knew Dean had sacrificed for him. Sam wanted Dean to know he appreciated every single one of those sacrifices. And above all else, Sam wanted Dean to know he loved him.

That was the arrow that pierced the deepest – Dean's bleeding, dying kid choking out an _I love you_ that only Dean could hear.

"Okay. Alright. Alright..." Dean nodded and forced another smile like he had allowed Sam his fun, had allowed him to say things that made Dean want to cry and scream. But playtime was over. It was back to business now. The number line wasn't going to count itself. "Come on. Just count with me."

But Sam was already fading. Dean could see it in the way Sam's back arched as his head turned away, his gaze sliding in the same direction.

"Sammy."

Sam's eyes closed...and Dean's heart stopped.

"Hey! Sam!" Dean growled, cupping his brother's jaw and trying to rouse him with a few light slaps.

But Sam didn't respond.

Dean stared down at him, helpless and panicked.

In the next second, the distinct sound and rush of air that accompanied massive wings unfurled in flight descended just behind the Impala.

Dean looked up, surprised but relieved to see Jack standing there.

"Dean," Jack said, then focused on Dean's brother motionless on the ground. "Sam..."

Dean watched as Jack crouched beside them, assessing Sam's condition before placing two fingers on Sam's forehead. His gaze became vacant as his eyes glowed; his healing powers radiating into Dean's kid, erasing the remnants of blood while mending broken skin, repairing a fractured skull, and stopping the internal hemorrhaging.

Dean had seen this supernatural magic trick before but still held his breath until Sam gasped awake – healed and whole and sitting up, asking where Nick was.

Dean stood and turned away, bringing his hand to his mouth to silence the emotions threatening to burst out. Five seconds ago, Sam was gone – _dead or dying_ – but now he was back and fine, and Dean couldn't handle the intense rollercoaster from soul-crushing loss to heart-pumping relief.

He loved his brother, but Sam was going to be the death of him with stunts like this.

Dean stood there, feeling Donatello's stare as he collected himself before turning back to face Sam.

"What about Mom?"

It was such a Sam thing to do – only moments back from the dead and already asking about everyone else's welfare except his own.

Jack assured Mary was fine, that everything was going to be fine before disappearing.

Dean couldn't explain the uneasy vibe he got from Jack's response but had to take him at his word for now since he had more immediate concerns...like the little brother still sitting on the ground staring up at him like he was lost.

"Are you okay?"

Dean snorted. "Don't worry about me," he told his brother. "Are _you_ okay?"

Because if Sam was okay, Dean was okay.

Sam nodded as Dean helped him to his feet, grateful for Dean's supportive hold on his arm even after he was standing. "Um, yeah. I think so. I guess."

Dean arched an eyebrow at the unconvincing reply from an unsteady little brother.

Sam shrugged and touched his forehead. "It's nothing. Just a vague headache right here."

"Oh, you mean where Nick cracked your skull?" Dean asked, showing Sam the blood-soaked fabric of the bandana before tossing it in the backseat floorboard.

Sam cringed. "That's mine?"

"Yep." Dean held up his hand still streaked with Sam's blood. "This, too."

"Oh my god." Sam shook his head. "How – "

" – are you alive?" Dean interrupted.

Sam nodded.

"Jack."

"Oh." Sam bit his lip as the missing pieces of the last few minutes fell into place. "I'm sorry."

Dean scoffed at the apology. "It's not your fault, Sam. I should've been here to watch your back. We knew Nick was unpredictable and dangerous."

"No, not that." Sam hesitated. "I'm...I'm sorry you had to go through that. Again."

Dean nodded, knowing Sam understood how deeply it hurt to have one half of yourself ripped away. One half of yourself _gone_. "You're back," he said. "That's all that matters."

Sam smiled, accepting the rough pat to his shoulder for the affection it was.

Dean sighed and turned to Donatello still lingering at the front of the Impala. "You want us to give you a lift home, or were you planning to call an Umber?"

"Dean. It's _Uber_."

"Whatever."

Sam smiled at his brother's dismissal.

"A ride home sounds great," Donatello replied. "Thank you."

Dean gestured to the backseat. "Get in," he told the prophet, then followed Sam as he crossed to the passenger side.

Sam tolerated Dean's hovering and even allowed his big brother to open the door.

"Watch your head," Dean cautioned like Sam hadn't gotten in and out of the Impala his entire life.

"I'm good," Sam assured.

"You better be," Dean grumbled, closing the door and rounding the front of the Impala.

An hour later, Donatello was home, and the brothers were heading back to the bunker. Dean's girl was rumbling down the highway, her headlights slicing through the darkness. Across the seat, Sam was slumped against the window, asleep for the last half hour and leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

The past 24 hours had been one hell of a ride.

Dean ran his hand over his face, but he could still see a bloody, gasping Sam staring up at him as he clung to life, injured beyond Dean's help. He knew those images would follow him to sleep tonight...and every other night. Just like all the close-calls did.

Although it had happened more times than Dean cared to count, it always felt like the first time – like that cold, damp night back in Cold Oak. Sam alive and calling for him one second, then unresponsive the next.

_Dead._

That was not a word that should ever describe Dean's little brother.

Dean sighed, then glanced to the passenger seat as Sam shifted, curling into himself like he was restless or uncomfortable. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Sam mumbled, not even opening his eyes. "M'fine."

"Does your head still hurt?"

"Not enough to worry about."

Dean scowled. He would decide that. "Rate it."

"One. Maybe a two."

Dean nodded, satisfied Sam's headache wasn't the issue. "Are you cold?" he asked, reaching into the backseat for the blanket they always kept there. "Here," he said, years of practice allowing him to continue driving while draping the blanket over his brother.

"Dean," Sam protested, pushing the blanket away. "Stop. I'm fine."

"Take it or I'll smother you with it."

Sam snorted at the empty threat but stopped resisting, allowing Dean to fuss over him because that's what Dean did when Sam had scared him – and Sam couldn't blame him. He knew he would fuss over Dean, too, if the tables were turned. It was just part of their process, part of reassuring themselves that the other was okay.

Sam sighed, feeling warm and safe under the blanket, and wondering if maybe Dean had been right – maybe he _had_ been cold.

It would be just like Dean to know what Sam needed before Sam did.

Sam smiled at the thought, pulling the blanket a little higher.

Several minutes passed.

The familiar hum of the Impala's engine had almost lulled Sam back to sleep when Dean spoke.

"I really thought I lost you today."

Sam opened his eyes at the confession.

"I really did." Dean stared out the windshield. "And I just...I can't keep _doing_ this, man. I can't keep waking up every morning wondering who I'm gonna lose before the day is over." He paused. "I can't keep facing every day fucking _terrified_ that it's gonna be you."

Sam nodded, well-acquainted with that nightmare since the thought of losing Dean terrified _him_. "I know," he whispered as if the moment would shatter if he spoke any louder. "But I'm okay."

"Yeah –_ this_ time." Dean's grip tightened around the steering wheel. "But what about next time?"

"Maybe there won't be a next time."

Dean shook his head at his optimistic little brother. "There's always a next time, Sam."

Sam wrinkled his nose, unsure what to say sometimes whenever Dean sounded so defeated. "Well, Jack – "

" – we can't always rely on Jack."

Sam frowned at Dean's tone, at the abrupt change in topic. "What makes you say that?"

Dean shrugged, wishing he hadn't said _anything_ since now Sam would obsess when he should be sleeping. "I don't know. Just a feeling." He shrugged again. "Forget I said anything."

Sam's frown deepened. "Is Mom safe with him?"

Dean pulled a face, trying to deflect the anxious uncertainty he could hear in Sam's voice. "She'll be fine. Mom was kicking ass long before we were. She can take care of herself." He glanced at his worried little brother. "I mean it, Sammy. Forget I said anything."

Sam hummed a response – because Dean knew it wasn't that easy – but he let it go for now. He was tired, and they would see Jack and Mary soon enough. They could sort out everything then.

Sam sighed and settled back against the window, almost asleep once more when a hazy memory surfaced. He opened his eyes, wondering why he was thinking about that now and if it was even real. He glanced at the driver's seat.

"Dean. Did you make me count with you earlier? 'Cause you know I hate that..."

His big brother's soft chuckle was the only answer Sam needed.

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_**END**_


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